ing alone is worth the price of the book, the pictures alone are worth it, and the reading-there's reading enough in that book to last you the balance of your life; two hundred and sixteen pages, bourgeois type, all for two dollars and a half! Fifty-two clergymen have contributed to this book and it has taken ten years to get it up just think of that! fifty-two ministers, ten years; equal to the work of one minister for five hundred years, and all for two dollars and a half! How many copies shall I put you down for?"

"Were dat ministure a Baptis', boss, what wuk at dis book five hundred year?" asked Uncle Edom, with per fect gravity.

"Ministers of all denominations have contributed to it," replied the agent, vigorously wiping his brow. "It is the most remarkable compilation of the age; the most eminent divines of our day have contributed to it."

"An' who you seh writ it?" asked Uncle Edom deferentially.

"It isn't the work of any one author, it is a compilation," repeated the agent, sweating like a dray-horse. You get the work of fifty-two authors in that book, every one of them ministers of the gospel, and only two dollars and a half! You will take at least two copies, wont you, one for your wife and one for yourself? No clergyman can afford to be without at least two copies of that book.”

Uncle Edom cast a wistful glance at the brilliant gold and green cover, but when he reflected how many mugs full of Aunt Beady's corn beer two dollars and a half would buy, they appeared more enticing than even the green and gold bound wisdom of the fifty-two eminent divines, and he answered :

"Dat dar book is mos' too dispensible fur colored pussons, boss; you'll hatter git white folks to buy sech

as dat."

"Expensive!" exclaimed the agent in a withering tone. 'Why it is the cheapest article for the money that has ever been put upon the market. Two hundred

and sixteen pages, bourgeois type, and fifty-two preachers, all for two dollars and a half! It is the cheapest book for the money ever printed."

"But I aint got no money to spar, boss; I'se done spore all I could, to buy vittles an' clo'es fur my wife an' chillun," objected Uncle Edom, with a mental reservation concerning the brown jug in Aunt Beady's cupboard. "But you had better deny your wife and children bread," persisted the agent, "than deprive them of this book. No Christian family can afford to be without at least one copy of this book."

"I'd lack to git it, boss, ef I had de money," said Uncle Edom, squirming himself off to the very edge of the sidewalk, as his persecutor pressed forward, pencil in hand, "but—”

"Oh, but you needn't pay the cash," interrupted the book-agent eagerly, as if afraid the quarry might escape him after all. "Just let me put your name down, and you can pay when the book is delivered. No minister of the gospel can afford to be without this work-especially," he added, struck by a happy thought, "when the parstor of the other colored church in Sugar Hill has taken two copies."

"Bre'r Thusaleh got two er dem books!" cried Uncle Edom, suddenly recovering his interest in the work. "Well den, boss, I reckon you'll hatter put me down fur three."

The agent wrote down the name with a flourish, and then hurried away to try the same tactics on Bre'r Thusaleh.

THE DEACON, ME AND HIM.-LOUIS EISENBEIS.*

Written expressly for this Collection.

Last night they held a meetin', makin' a gineral search, Seein' if they couldn't find a way to build a stylish church. Old Deacon Jones, he told 'em (and the deacon he was right) They'd better make the old one do, for the times were hard and tight;

*Author of "The Parson's Vacation," "The Church Fair," &c., in other Num bers of this Sories.

6

Money was scarce, an' lots of people havin' nothin' tall to do: Not a-knowin' how to manage for to put the winter through.

1, too, told 'em in the meetin', I had figured up, and know, "Twould be hard to git the money jist to build a church for show;

Why, sed I, for forty years I'd bin goin' to and fro,

Through the summer's heat and dust and the winter's cold and snow,

And I'd never heerd complainin', or suggestin' somethin' new,

That the meetin' house was common, so it wouldn't longer do:

And the deacon, me and him, sed the house was good enough,

And to go and build another would jist be a waste of stuff; For the Lord was great and holy, and opposed to empty

show,

And to help 'em build another, we would vote a solid no!

Howsomever, they decided, after long and keerful search, For to go ahead and build it, an't must be a stylish church. So we saw 'twas no use talkin', and the deacon, me and him, Seein' as how we couldn't stop em, sed they needn't count us in;

For the deacon, me and him, when we see a sin about, Keep a-poundin' and a-poundin', tryin' to knock the bottom

out.

Why I never could believe it, from the cradle up to now,
That a stylish church was better, any way, or any how;
That 'twas any nearer heaven settin' in a cushioned pew,
Than upon the old pine benches in our meetin' house, do
you?

Or that carpet on the floor, or upon the meetin' stair,
Made it easier for to travel to the mansions over there.
Does a fancy winder pane, flingin' colors all around,
Or an organ with a bellows pumpin' out a roarin' sound,
Or a steeple with a bell, and a cross upon the top,
Help to git us nearer heaven, by a-liftin' of us up?
Why 'cordin' to that notion, God has made a big mistake
By not havin' padded sleepin' cars to haul 'em through the

gate;

For it seems they're really willin' for to walk the golden

street,

But in gittin' there, they study how to ease their tender

feet.

The deacon, me and him, were a-sayin' t'other day

That the people were explorin' how to find an easier way;

They would like to git to heaven if they could ride a fancy

hoss

On a level grassy road where there wasn't any cross;

For them crosses, they don't like, they would rather bear

bouquets,

Somethin' smellin' sweet and nice, that would git the people's praise;

Somethin' in the style of fashion, more becomin' to a gent Than a-bearin' heavy crosses-and a-payin' more per cent. They must have their stylish churches, for to sing and preach and pray,

So that all may git to glory in their own app'inted way.
Now 'twould be a kinder nice, jist before them people died,
If the Lord would let 'em in on a smooth terboggan slide,
For it's easier goin' down than it is a-goin' up,

And it's nicer eatin' honey outer a fancy lookin' cup;
But if they can git to heaven slidin' in, in that a-way,
They may try it if they will, but they'll find it doesn't pay;
For it's not the Bible way of bein' saved, and gittin' in,
And we don't propose to risk it, that's the deacon, me and him.

PLEASE, PREACHER MAN, CAN I GO HOME? Bess went to church one sultry day:

She kept awake, I'm glad to say,

Till "fourthly" started on its way.

Then moments into hours grew;

Oh, dear! Oh, dear! what should she do?
Unseen she glided from the pew,

And up the aisle demurely went,
On some absorbing mission bent,
Her eyes filled with a look intent.

She stopped and said, in plaintive tone,
With hand uplifted toward the dome,
"Please, preacher man, can I go home?"

The treble voice, bell-like in sound,
Disturbed a sermon most profound;
A titter swelled as it went round.

A smile the pastor's íace o'erspread,
He paused, and bent his stately head;
"Yes, little dear," he gently said.

HIS SWEETHEART'S SONG.-FRED C. DAYTON.

[ADAPTED.]

Perhaps never before in all its eventful history had Castle Garden seen such an event as this. The time was four o'clock on a Friday morning in the closing days in February. John Kirton, a Scotch immigrant, who had obtained permission to await the arrival of the Wyoming, on which he expected his parents, awoke from his uneasy slumbers on a bench in the rotunda at the hour named. He was suffering terribly, and at his request a physician was called. The man was found to be the victim of a congestive chill and beyond the aid of medical science.

"I can ease your pain, but I cannot save your life," said the doctor. "What are your wishes?"

"Send for Bessie," groaned Kirton. "She's at the Mission of our Lady of the Rosary. Her full name is Bessie Hewitt, and we were to have been married after the Wyoming got in."

A messenger rushed out, and meanwhile the sick man was conveyed to the wooden hospital building by a Russian Jew and an Armenian who, like Kirton, had been spending the night on the benches. Miss Hewitt soon arrived, escorted by one of the priests. She sank down beside the cot on which her almost unconscious lover lay. He revived at her touch and asked: "Is't thou, lass?" "Yes, John, dear.”

"I'm goin' a lang journey, sweetheart; langer than the journey to America was, and I want to start with the music of thy sweet voice in my ears. Sing to me, Bessie, lass; sing one of the tunes we knew when we were barefooted children paddling in the burn."

My son," interrupted the priest, "have vou made your peace with God?"

"I confess myself a sinner, and I look to Christ for mercy," gasped the sufferer. "Bessie, sing."

The girl crept to his side and placed her right arm under his head. Then she began the sweet old strains of